Thirteen West Page 8

  Fortunately she'd been too frightened to tell anyone. If she had, would she be locked up now like Laura Jean, zonked on Thorazine?

  Was she all right now? Would she go to bed some night again and find Em there with her? Sally bowed her head, clutching her hands together. Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks.

  "Hey," David said.

  Sally sniffed and gulped, wiping at her eyes.

  "You're crying." He put an arm around her. "It's not that bad, whatever's the matter."

  She turned her face into his chest and sobbed.

  After a moment she felt him urging her to walk and let him lead her into one of the rooms.

  "The Preacher's holding forth," he said. "and Jacko's watching TV for a change. Their room is empty—sit down." Sally sat on the edge of Simpson's bed, feeling foolish and fumbling in her pocket for a tissue. David sat beside her, not too close.

  "Anything I can do to help?" he asked.

  "No, it's nothing anyone can help me with."

  "One of the patients?" he asked. "Laura Jean? They get to you once in a while. You got to learn to block it out."

  "That's what Connie told me. I know you're right."

  He eyed her assessingly and she hung her head.

  "So, it's more than that," he said. "Maybe you need to talk about it."

  "In a way it concerns Laura Jean. I—I could be her."

  "No way."

  "But I could. I had hallucinations. They were so real. I believed—"

  "LSD?" he asked.

  "No. I've never even smoked pot. Nothing. But after Em died I—I saw her. She was there."

  "Who's Em?"

  "My—she was my friend."

  David was silent a moment. "A special friend. More than a friend." There was no question in his voice.

  Sally raised her head to stare at him. "How could you know?"

  "I just do. So, Em died?"

  "She—she killed herself. In front of me. We were in her apartment and I was supposed to—she wanted me to die too. Only I couldn't. I was afraid. I wanted to live. I argued with her and she—she called me a coward. When she picked up the gun and pointed it at me, I ran out of the room. I heard a shot and when I got up enough courage to go back she had blood on her head, on her face, only her eyes weren't dead, they saw me, even with this terrible hole in her head and gray stuff, brains..." She couldn't go on.

  David eased over and put his arm around her. "Take it easy. You're shaking all over."

  She clutched at his hand. "I—I ran off, I left her like that and no one found out I'd been there when it happened. I got sick, really sick with a fever and had to stay in bed two weeks."

  "Maybe you were delirious when you thought you saw her."

  "No, no, it wasn't then, it was after I was better. She came and sat on my bed and put her arm around me like—like this. And she said she'd never leave me now, that we were— wedded forever."

  "Could be you had a psychic experience," David said. "Em's spirit contacting you."

  "I don't believe in that," Sally said. "It was a hallucination."

  "Well, whatever it was, you're okay now."

  "Am I?" Sally's voice trembled. "What if she appears again? What if I really am becoming psychotic?"

  David gave her a little shake. "Hey, I don't believe that. You got to realize what Em was like—possessive, jealous, she even wanted you to die with her so no one else could have any part of you. Right?"

  "How—how could you know all those things about her?"

  "Aren't they true?"

  "Yes. It's like you knew her." She gazed at David in wonder.

  "So you're well rid of her. What kind of love is that, wanting you to die? No wonder you thought you saw her still trying to hang on to you."

  "I don't understand. Did you know Em?"

  "There's more than one like her in the world."

  "Oh. You have a girlfriend like Em."

  "Not exactly."

  "Not...?" Sally let go of his hand, her fingers flying to her mouth as the truth hit her. "I—I don't know what to say. I guess sorry isn't the right word."

  He took his arm away. "I had a choice. We all have a choice in the beginning. But now it seems like I don't."

  "No wonder you understood about Em and didn't sneer or look disgusted. I was always so afraid people would. She used to yell at me and say I—I didn't love her and maybe I didn't. I can't tell anymore."

  "Just Em?" he asked. "You ever make it with a guy?" Sally shook her head.

  "Maybe," he began, then shook his head. "No, forget it."

  "Tell me," she said. "I've never talked to anyone about Em. I never thought anyone would really understand. Oh, David, I feel so much better. Tell me anything, ask me anything."

  He smiled slightly, but didn't speak.

  Impulsively, she leaned over and brushed her lips across his cheek. "I hope you don't mind. It seems like we've been friends for years and years."

  They stared into each other's eyes.

  Not until he began groaning with approaching orgasm did they hear Jacko and turn around, startled to see he'd slipped into the room and was masturbating to one side of them.

  * * *

  On Tuesday Frank Kent made rounds on Thirteen West, taking more time than his usual walk-through. His first day back on duty and Alma's second day off. Not that Dorothy Leveret wasn't capable, but it was Alma's ward, after all, so she was more likely to spot problems before they had mushroomed into crises.

  "Did you know Laura Jean McRead's vaginal smear was negative for sperm?" Ms Leveret asked as she made the rounds with him. "Days called the lab to ask."

  "Glad to hear it," Frank told her.

  "Now we can relax and stop eyeing those men on nights as though they were all rapists."

  Frank grunted. As far as he was concerned they all were potential rapists. He extended the suspicion to any man because he knew what was buried within himself, needing to be tamped down with all his will.

  Still, the absence of sperm argued against rape in this case.

  "Dr. Jacobs says he's considering electric shock for both Laura Jean and Adolph Benning," she went on.

  "How's Dolph eating?"

  "We've been able to get enough down him so he hasn't needed a feeding tube inserted, but he's still very withdrawn."

  "I hear the Preacher orating," Frank said.

  "...a desolation, a lair of jackals...he makes the mist rise from the ends of the earth...he brings forth the wind from his storehouses..." Simpson intoned as they passed. "...bringing forth evil upon these people, the fruit of their devices..."

  "Jeremiah again, the cheery prophet," Frank said. Dorothy Leveret stared at him. He could see the wheels going round in her head—who'd have expected Frank Kent to know the Bible?

  "I couldn't tell Jeremiah from Moses," she confessed.

  He kept himself as private as possible, making no friends at the hospital with the exception of Sal Luera, the night supervisor—they got along well together. But not even Sal knew Frank was taking college courses during the mornings that would lead to a degree in hospital administration.

  David and Sally were seated in the lounge and looked up simultaneously when Frank entered. He frowned, getting a feeling of concealment, of secrets.

  "I have to get back to work," Sally said, rising and glancing at David as she did so.

  "Not even hello?" Frank asked.

  She flushed. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean—hello, Mr. Kent."

  "Are you any more enthusiastic about becoming a psych nurse?" he persisted.

  "I—no," she said, edging past him.

  David was on his feet, following Sally. Frank watched them go out, two slim young bodies without much visible sex differentiation except for Sally's smaller bone structure. She certainly wasn't afraid of David. Frank half-smiled. No need to be, if what he'd heard was true.

  It might or might not be. Rumors swarmed about the place like cockroaches. Undoubtedly, since he didn't date women, it was al
so whispered that Frank Kent was gay. Better they thought that than knew what he'd been tempted by in the past. Yes, the past. Behind him.

  Sally wasn't all that young—nineteen, almost twenty, he'd looked at her record in personnel when he checked the records of William Rhone and Joseph Thompson, the regular night techs on Thirteen West.

  Only one of the night relief techs on Thirteen West was a man and he was well known to be homosexual. In fact, he lived with one of the male psychiatric social workers in what was apparently a stable relationship. They were buying a home, raised Rex cats—very domestic.

  The other was a woman, a sexy piece by all accounts, who was currently balling a married psychologist. Or had been, anyway. Her husband had recently given the erring doctor a black eye.

  So, as far as the night shift went, only Rhone and Thompson were unknowns. Nothing out of the way on either of their records, if you discounted Rhone's brief jail sentence. He'd recently transferred here from down south, a fairly new graduate, rumored to be a swinger, probably unlikely he'd risk rape if he was getting it elsewhere.

  Thompson was moonlighting, Frank had found out, not unusual for the night people. That ought to make him too tired for it.

  Besides, Laura Jean was a schiz with known hallucinations, which meant no one might be molesting her. She was terror-ridden. Schizophrenia had rightly been called the kingdom of hell.

  Hell must be worse than purgatory. He knew about purgatory. But Sally was almost twenty, after all, and she attracted him.

  "Hi, Mr. Kent," Sven Taterson said as Frank passed him in the corridor. "How's chances of me getting back to Twelve East?"

  "Tate, you know only a doctor can order a transfer."

  "Yeah, but this Doc Jacobs, he don't know me very well yet and I thought maybe you could put it to him, tell him I don't belong over here with the crazies. You know." Tate jerked his head toward his room where Dolph Benning curled fetus-like.

  "The idea is having guys like you around will help the others, the ones who are withdrawn," Frank said. "Anyway, aren't you about due for discharge?"

  "They said something about a half-way house, but I don't know. Sure, I want to get out of here but it don't sound like they trust me to get by on my own."

  "You think about it," Frank said as he unlocked the ward door to let himself out. Once the door was shut behind him, he shook his head. He'd seen Tate's history. The hospital had tried to discharge him at least three times before, each time precipitating an acute anxiety that immobilized the man in a panic state. Odds were he'd work himself into another one this time.

  Frank crossed the inner court toward the East wards, his shoulders hunched against the chill of the night mist. The weatherman predicted clearing tomorrow but he'd been wrong more than right so far this year.

  Sally had quarters on the grounds, over in the singles apartments. How much longer did she have to go here? About two more weeks, as he recalled. Not much time.

  Stop thinking about Sally Goodrow, he told himself. Don't stir up buried trouble. Anyway, she's afraid of you. Better take a second look at that little item—is that what attracts you?

  Frank shuddered, increasing his pace.

  What was she up to with Dave Boyer?

  Hurrying figures passed him, the night shift beginning to show. Alma would be back tomorrow and he'd have to remember to adjust rounds so he could walk her to her car. Funny, she hadn't been afraid when she worked evenings on the Ad Ward.

  At first he'd thought it was a ploy to wear down his resistance but Alma didn't bother to throw herself his way anymore—not even on the nightly stroll to the parking lot. Probably found someone more susceptible, which was a relief. He liked her even though he didn't care for her physically. Or that red-haired sexpot who worked night relief—always thrusting big tits at him, as if that's all a man wanted. Sally lived at the far end of the two story singles unit. Apartment 32. Like an omen, if you believed in that trash. He was thirty-two. Tonight after report, he was heading directly home, he would not drive past the apartments.

  Frank turned on the windshield wipers and headlights and backed his red Corvette from the slot. He turned the wheel to head out the main entrance but, as if the car had a mind of its own, it swung in the opposite direction and crept along the road leading to the living quarters. He pulled into the apartment parking lot and cut the lights and motor, sitting in the dark. After a few minutes he got out, heading for the dubious shelter of a pine where he'd be a shadow among shadows with a clear view of number 32.

  I must be cracking up, Frank told himself. Stupid. Dangerous. For the past week he'd stopped here every damn night he'd worked and he'd had to fight the urge to drive out here on his two days off.

  There she was, coming along the walk. Not alone, for the first time. Dave was with her. Frank's hands clenched into fists.

  He watched while they climbed the steps, while Sally unlocked her door and let David inside with her. He waited, tension growing. Shortly, the door opened and Dave reappeared, hurrying down the stairs and sprinting along the walk.

  Frank went back to his car and headed for the main parking lot, determined to follow Dave.

  He managed to trail Dave's car into town and into one of the newer tracts. When Dave turned into a driveway, Frank drove on past, stopped and jumped out of the Corvette, striding up the drive of the house next door, hoping there wasn't a dog loose. He ducked into the shrubbery and edged along to peer around the front, just in time to see the door open. A middle-aged curly-haired man stood in the light, a stocky man, running to early fat.

  "You're late," he said to Dave who was coming toward the door. "A good twenty minutes late."

  "It's raining," Dave said.

  "Misting. I know rain when I see it. It did rain last week and you weren't late then."

  "For Chrissake," Dave muttered. "stop screwing me over for a lousy couple minutes." He pushed by the man and entered the house. The door closed.

  Frank, almost as wet as though the mist were rain, eased up the steps to check the house number. Beside it was a mailbox. He pulled out his lighter. J. Bates, D. Boyer, said the neat letters on the box. He noted the number and, when he drove away, he stopped at the nearest intersection to be sure of the street name.

  Could be a relative. He'd look up Dave's records and see if that told him anything. But Mr. J. Bates had sounded more like a suspicious husband than anything else.

  Warming his chilled body under a hot shower, Frank gave himself up to speculation. What did Dave want with Sally? J. Bates wasn't likely to put up with any straying—he kept a short lead on the leash. If Dave was only walking her to her apartment due to some nervousness on her part, why had he gone inside and what had he been doing for the ten minutes he'd been in there? It didn't take long to say thanks and goodbye. That could have been done outside.

  A needle prick of rationality stung him. He was headed down the dangerous path of obsession. Enough! He toweled himself vigorously. What Sally and Dave did was none of his business.

  When he lay in bed, though, her face with its delicate features refused to be banished; pale, blushing easily, fearful, a little rabbit of a girl. As he drifted into sleep, her hair darkened, her eyes changed from blue to hazel, freckles sprinkled across her nose...

  With an exclamation of horror, Frank hurtled from the bed. He rummaged in the bathroom until he found the Dalmane and popped two, then picked up a nursing magazine to read until the pills zonked him.

  So, he felt cruddy the next day. He hated sleeping pills. And, of course, the problems began promptly at fifteen hundred and mounted as the evening went on. He kept it under control until after sixteen-thirty, when Dr. Greensmith took over as MOD.

  "Yes, Doctor, I do think she needs to be seen," Frank insisted, clutching the phone at the B East desk with tense fingers. "She's a Down's Syndrome with a heart defect and her rectal temp's 105.4. She's also very congested. Yes, she's had the ice-water enema and the IM ampicillin. Frankly, Doctor, I'm afraid she won't make
it until morning."

  Before Dr. Greensmith got to B East, a call came through from C West where one of the teenagers had managed to climb up to the overhead lights, remove the cover and unscrew a bulb to stick his fingers in the socket for a suicide try. The resultant shock flung him to the floor where he lacerated his face on the broken light bulb.

  "I hope this is the extent of tonight's disasters," Dr. Greensmith said to Frank after he'd sewed up the teenager and looked in on the critically ill girl. "Why me, that's what I'd like to know. Every other doc reports quiet nights, uninterrupted sleep. But when I'm on—zap!" he flung his hands into the air.

  Old Greenie was always full of complaints. To keep peace, Frank offered a perfunctory, "Sorry, Doctor."

  "I trust you won't call me for the rest of this miserable night."

  "I hope I won't have to."

  Unfortunately, Dr. Greensmith could hardly have gotten back to his apartment before the charge tech on Ten East was on the phone, reporting a woman with abdominal pain.

  "Jeez, I don't know, Frank, she's all doubled over and we haven't had a GI bug over here lately. She hasn't had any loose stools. Isn't constipated either. I checked. No fecal impaction. She nearly hit the ceiling when I had the glove in there. When I ask her where it hurts, she points to the right lower quadrant."

  Frank squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. A hot appendix? He extracted an order for a white blood cell count from Greenie, then located the lab tech on call. While he was waiting for the results, Alma paged him from Thirteen West.

  "What's the trouble?" he asked resignedly when she answered her phone.

  "Simpson Jones—he's wild. I've given him everything on the order sheet and he's still ranting and carrying on. We managed to four-point him to keep him from tearing up the place but I need an order for that. Also, please, something to slow him down."

  The white count was high enough so that Dr. Greensmith felt forced to come over and examine the patient on Ten East. Frank left him there, making arrangements for her transfer out for possible surgery, and hurried over to Thirteen West. He heard the Preacher shouting before he had the second door unlocked.